The University of the Self #48

The Muses of Yore

The Muses of Yore

Image description: On a black background, a white circular diagram (drawn by myself) has been drawn. The circle has a smaller centre circle which is edged in purple and green. In the middle of it is written the name Mnemosyne (memory). The rest of the surrounding area is divided up into 9 smaller sections with the names Calliope (epic poetry), Clio (history), Erato (love poetry), Terpsichore (dance), Melpomene (tragedy), Euterpe, (flutes and music), Thalia (comedy & pastoral poetry), Polyhymnia (sacred poetry), Urania (astronomy.

A really, really long time ago in ancient Greece, people attributed
many or most things that they artistcally created to a group of divine beings,
and not to themselves. These deities were called Muses. From what I can gather,
there were either three — the Boeotian Muses

(Melete who encouraged meditation, Mneme, who tickled up memory
and Aoede, who rustled up the songs),

or there were nine, because three couldn’t be expected to take responsiblity for everything. Their names were

Thalia,
Urania,
Calliope,
Euterpe,
Melpomene,
Terpsichore,
Polyhymnia,
Erato
and Clio.

Their mother was Mnemosyne (1). I love that. Memory being the mother of everything. Memory—a powerful thing to have (both as a positive and a negative) and a devastating thing to lose. I love that they were born at the foot of a mountain.

The Muses have been, over the centuries, comitted to canvas as naked
or scantily clad, winsome or sexy, heaven-gazing, sometimes winged,
draped in jewel-coloured fabrics, or sensually clutching one other.
They are festooned with wreaths, trumpets, roses, lyres, flutes, agricultural implements and a bunch of other theatrical parephenalia.

I’m calling dibs on Urania’s diadem of stars by the way. How cool would it be
to have that?

They are usually dancing, or reclining on the ground in luscious groups.
They offer their gifts to a select few. In Paul Cézanne’s The Kiss of the Muse,
one of the muses has stopped by to smooch some bloke’s forehead into poetic life.

In Eugène Delacroix’s Hésiode Et La Muse, one of the muses levitates tenderly above the poet, her right arm stretched out, her palm about to slap a set of stanzas right onto his slumbering face. Artists are meant to be dependent on them for inspiration.

No Muse, no Art?

The poets of history made sure to invoke them, othrewise said poets might have been left bemoaning an empty quill and serve them right.

The muses appeared as mere visitations in men’s minds. The men helped themselves to liberal portions of muse-ness before becoming massively famous and admired in their particular creative field. The men’s names went up in lights but did the muses get so much as a postcard? A thank-you box of chocolates? A book of their own?

If I was ever to identify the nine for myself (2), their names would be:

Angry,
Defiant,
Joyous,
Elusive,
Exciteable,
Curious,
Giddy,
Tough
and Hardworking.

They’d be buttoned up to the neck because their bodies are nobody else’s business. Their mother would still be Memory. Without her, none of her children would be nourished. They wouldn’t write memoirs. They wouldn’t have anything to dwell upon. They wouldn’t learn from their mistakes.

The Muses are a lovely story but that’s all it is. Your creativity is not reliant on the mercies of nine mythical manifestations and whether or not they condescend to give you any of their gifts. It seems cruel to me, all this waiting to be selected at apprent random for a dose of a muse’s special stuff (3).

It reminds me a little of that joke about the person berating God for never having won the lottery, and God says, at least buy a ticket, for heaven’s sake!

It’s no good waiting for muses if your’e not prepared to enter the tombola’s spnning belly and begin committing those squiggles to the page. Inspiration blossoms from the information your senses ingest. Do you want to know who the Muse really is? It’s YOU. It’s right there, inside. The more you learn, the more you want to reinterpret, regurgitate, react, respond. When something tweaks your interest, follow those threads. Being a writer is not the product of fate.

You are your own Muse.
Teach yourself inspired.


(1) There are slightly different theories on who the Muse’s parents were. It’s up to you if you wish to dig about further, on your own time.
(2) I accidentally went a bit LOTR there. But was it accidental? Nine muses. Nine Nazgûl. One made me recall the other. Muse as Memory in evidence.
(3) I was always picked last for teams at school. I rarely got those precious invitations to parties. When a poetry group I was in a few years ago heard of an opportunity to submit co-authroed poems, there was a pairing-up scramble. I wrote to person after person. Did they want to write one with me? Sorry, no. Sorry, no. Sorry, no. Sorry, no. Sorry, no. Sorry, no. Sorry, no. I might have forgiven after all this time but I obviously haven’t forgotten. I was reminded once again how it feels to have no friends. Oof. I didn’t expect to be dredging all that up again. That’s how your Inner Muse works. It’s not all roses. Anyway, it was the boot up the backside I needed to paddle my own canoe, as the saying goes, and get on with the business of writing without the need to reply on anyone else.

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